That's me tonight. Blah blah blah, because writing in my blog will help me to procrastinate better when it comes to paying my bills. This is more fun, anyway. Day two of the TV ban, and I'm not jonesing quite as bad as I was yesterday. Not quite, but almost. Fuck. I am glad my children will be at their father's house this weekend, because I need some mindless Cake Boss in my head. Since I haven't been able to either make it work at all for part of the month (thanks conference, flu, and strep throat) or make it to work on time or work an entire day (thanks orthodontist, dentist, child psychologist, and after school arts program), I had planned on working late tomorrow night to try to make up for some of that time, and besides, Guy #1 has to work tomorrow night, so I might as well be productive at work, too. But now... I'm thinking I am going to come home and lay my ass right on the sofa with remote in hand. Even if I haven't read that much this week, I've written some, and that counts, right?
Mrs. Second Grade Teacher sent extra homework home with the older daughter today, and gave us the whole weekend to get it done. Yay! So now I can send that homework over to her father's house where it won't get done. And we will get to do tons of homework on Sunday night. Really, I need to figure out where this woman lives and go shit on her front porch. Seriously. With copious amounts of liquor this can happen. Actually, I'm such a lightweight these days it would only take a couple of shots. And I would do it naked, too, because liquor makes me take off my clothes. This would go back to why I'm a lightweight, which is because I've learned that I can't just be randomly getting drunk and undressing. And the whole stretch mark thing.
I am also now annoyed with Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher, because I paid money to get a class photo of the younger daughter's class. Pictures came home this week and the older daughter got her class photo, but nothing for the younger daughter. I very nicely wrote a note to Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and asked her to send the class photo home this evening in the bookbag. I get home, open the bookbag and nothing. No class photo and no return note. Unorganized bitch. As I was writing the note this morning, I wondered if Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and Mrs. Second Grade Teacher are friends, but decided they can't be lunch buddies because they go to lunch at different times, unless Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher goes down to the Teacher's Lounge to eat lunch during kindergarten resource time, which is probably pretty close to second grade lunch period. The intricacies of being a bitch to one teacher without it rubbing off on her teacher friends is working out to be somewhat complicated. At any rate, if I don't get a class photo after tomorrow, then I will be moving Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher up on my shit list.
My shit list, you might ask? Ahhhh, the ever-evolving shit list. Currently, here are the standings. If I were a math geek and could keep track of all of my shittiest interactions, I would attach some statistics to this, but I took remedial math all the way through college, so there won't be any statistics. Here goes:
1. Mrs. Second Grade Teacher - have you read my blog?
2. The Ex - just general principle on this one.
3. My former neighbors, but not my Other Mother - imagine me singing the word assholes, because that's how I like to describe them. The Ex and the next door husband had hooked up routers and connected to each other's Limewires a few years ago, and so we could see what each other was downloading. The Ex and I were downloading music and concert videos (U2 at Red Rock is THE BEST!) but the husband next door? Porn, porn and more porn. What a freak show. I came to the conclusion that he.does.not.get.any.ass. which I thought was awesome, because if I were that guy's wife, I wouldn't give him any either. I am NONE TOO HAPPY that The Ex has arranged for the children to have a slumber party as their house tomorrow night because he's got some stupid band thing. Way to arrange your life around your children, dickface. I am confident the band thing will end up being gay and at the end of the night, after a successful set list and a bunch of half-drunk forty-something women panting all over The Ex, he and I will both know his dick is still small and he won't take his cholesterol medication. Okay, that even made me laugh.
4. A couple of people at work I don't like who won't quit sending me emails about shit I haven't taken care of. Really, the more you bug me the longer it's going to take me.
5. The elementary school room mothers for both of my daughters - Would you please stop being so fucking chipper. It's grating.
6. YMCA summer camp people - I am still pissed off from last summer. It's a slow burn.
7. Estranged family members - I suppose they wouldn't be on my shit list if they weren't estranged, now would they?
8. Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher - Either I need a class photo pronto or my eleven dollars back. That eleven dollars can buy me 2.3 gallons of gas, dammit. She might still be mad that I pretty much ran her off the road a couple of months ago, but jesus, lady, learn how to merge. It didn't help that my younger daughter was in the backseat frantically waving at her as I saw her out of the corner of my eye white knuckling her steering wheel as she was forced onto the side of the road.
And there we have it. Today's shit list. I wish I could figure out how to do the little up and down arrows beside each one, like they do on the music charts in magazines and such. Maybe I'll make this a weekly thing. Or maybe not. I'll probably forget in a week, or maybe next week I'll do the Not Shit List.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
What Did I Do?
Oh my god. My brain is aching. I need some TV sounds in my head. A mere 24 hours since I imposed The Moratorium and I'm freaking dying here. This no TV thing might just be harder on me than it is on the children, but dammit, if I am going to force them to go cold turkey I guess I have to do it too.
We came home this evening and the girls elected to play outside while I got dinner ready. Awesome. They weren't all up under my feet arguing who's turn it was to stir. I enjoyed the sounds of childish laughter floating in through the front door, and I was glad that they were outside doing something halfway creative like creating an obstacle course in the driveway. I looked out at them at one point and the older daughter was teaching the younger daughter how to hold a bat. And they were getting along, which was even more amazing. I'll assume they decided to become one in their loss of the box that fills their head with complete shit.
I explained over dinner that this isn't a punishment, but this is us making a decision to live a better life. They both looked at me doubtfully, and I thought to myself, fuck, I don't even believe that drivel. And then I said that when the reading improves, then I'll look at maybe watching a very little bit of TV. The younger daughter pointed out that she can't read yet. I told her that she'll be learning soon and that's more important than watching TV. The older daughter asked if I was still going to watch TV. I told them, no, I'm not going to watch TV in front of them. And I'm not. But I am sure as hell going to watch it when they aren't here and when they're sleeping. Then they asked about Survivor, which we usually watch on demand on Friday nights. I said that if I thought the reading and school work had improved, maybe, just maybe, we could watch it next Friday night on demand. What I didn't tell them is that I plan to watch it this Friday night on demand because I can't wait until next Friday night. Then they asked if they could still watch TV at The Ex's house, and smiled sneaky little smiles at each other when I explained that was up to their father. Whatever. The children are with me for the majority of the time, until the summer, and we're not going to watch TV. Even if it kills me. And I am thinking tonight it's going to kill me.
As the evening wore on and we did homework and read, I felt the urge to hear the electronic voices drifting out of the TV, now shuttered in the entertainment center. I could feel the magnetic pull of the TV, calling me, Steph... Steph... turn me on. Did I mention I've got a headache now, probably from resisting the call of HGTV, the Food Network, Bravo, Style, Tru, Discovery, even Anderson Cooper? I'm fucking dying here. But I can do this. One day at a time. I have to be the one to be firm on this, dammit, since I imposed The Moratorium. The Ban.
The book the children selected to read tonight, before we got started with homework? Of all the books in the house, they wanted to read the Bible. Oh my god. Are you kidding me? Their father would be so proud and I could hear his passive-aggressive comment about maybe Mommy could learn something by reading the Bible. I could hear this because I actually have heard this before. But I sucked it up, because reading is reading at this point. I'm not going to be choosy about what they read. My younger daughter had to stop in the middle and say a prayer about Noah and the rain. I opened one eye and watched her during the prayer and didn't even know what to think, other than the church stuff The Ex is doing with the children on his weekends must really be sticking.
Reading is reading. This what I'm trying to remember.
We came home this evening and the girls elected to play outside while I got dinner ready. Awesome. They weren't all up under my feet arguing who's turn it was to stir. I enjoyed the sounds of childish laughter floating in through the front door, and I was glad that they were outside doing something halfway creative like creating an obstacle course in the driveway. I looked out at them at one point and the older daughter was teaching the younger daughter how to hold a bat. And they were getting along, which was even more amazing. I'll assume they decided to become one in their loss of the box that fills their head with complete shit.
I explained over dinner that this isn't a punishment, but this is us making a decision to live a better life. They both looked at me doubtfully, and I thought to myself, fuck, I don't even believe that drivel. And then I said that when the reading improves, then I'll look at maybe watching a very little bit of TV. The younger daughter pointed out that she can't read yet. I told her that she'll be learning soon and that's more important than watching TV. The older daughter asked if I was still going to watch TV. I told them, no, I'm not going to watch TV in front of them. And I'm not. But I am sure as hell going to watch it when they aren't here and when they're sleeping. Then they asked about Survivor, which we usually watch on demand on Friday nights. I said that if I thought the reading and school work had improved, maybe, just maybe, we could watch it next Friday night on demand. What I didn't tell them is that I plan to watch it this Friday night on demand because I can't wait until next Friday night. Then they asked if they could still watch TV at The Ex's house, and smiled sneaky little smiles at each other when I explained that was up to their father. Whatever. The children are with me for the majority of the time, until the summer, and we're not going to watch TV. Even if it kills me. And I am thinking tonight it's going to kill me.
As the evening wore on and we did homework and read, I felt the urge to hear the electronic voices drifting out of the TV, now shuttered in the entertainment center. I could feel the magnetic pull of the TV, calling me, Steph... Steph... turn me on. Did I mention I've got a headache now, probably from resisting the call of HGTV, the Food Network, Bravo, Style, Tru, Discovery, even Anderson Cooper? I'm fucking dying here. But I can do this. One day at a time. I have to be the one to be firm on this, dammit, since I imposed The Moratorium. The Ban.
The book the children selected to read tonight, before we got started with homework? Of all the books in the house, they wanted to read the Bible. Oh my god. Are you kidding me? Their father would be so proud and I could hear his passive-aggressive comment about maybe Mommy could learn something by reading the Bible. I could hear this because I actually have heard this before. But I sucked it up, because reading is reading at this point. I'm not going to be choosy about what they read. My younger daughter had to stop in the middle and say a prayer about Noah and the rain. I opened one eye and watched her during the prayer and didn't even know what to think, other than the church stuff The Ex is doing with the children on his weekends must really be sticking.
Reading is reading. This what I'm trying to remember.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Mommy Is Not Happy
Sooooo.... Mommy is not a happy camper tonight. After yet another painful bout of reading with the older daughter, the top of Mommy's head blew off and Mommy took TV away forever. Well, probably not forever, but for the long and forseeable future. That's it! I'm done! There is no more TV in this house, girls! If you get bored and don't have anything to do, READ A FREAKING BOOK!
I should have done this months ago, if not years ago. But I was being lazy, and I blame myself for that. I should have set the priorities a long time ago, and I failed on that. Well, as of tonight, my children can consider their extracurricular activities re-prioritized by me. I've been getting sick of the sound of the TV always being on, other than when we're doing homework and eating, and I'm most certainly sick of the bullshit advertising and the stupid programming. The programming that never says, "Hey, kids, how about you turn the fucking TV off and read a book?" I am sick of at least one child asking every thirty minutes, "Hey, Mommy, can you buy us... Hey, Mommy, can we have.... Mommy, will you get us..." Sick of it, just simply sick and tired of it.
I know that if I don't get this whole reading thing under control now, it's not going to get better next year. In fact, it will get worse, because next year the work will be harder and the reading more complicated, and I'm sorry, but either of my children failing a grade is not an option. Simply, just not an option. Not for me and not for them. If they fail, it's not going to be because TV was the priority. It's going to be for some legitimate reason. Like some kind of learning disability the school system has failed to properly diagnose. But that's a whole other topic.
As my older daughter was laboring through her word list tonight, I was sitting there beside her, halfway tuned out, looking at my bookshelves with all of my favorite books that have been toted around Prospect, Farmville, the southside of Richmond, Glen Allen and two seperate places in Midlothian. Reading isn't my escape, necessarily, but it's certainly my first love. I was reading Stephen King in seventh grade, sitting up late on school nights in my closet with a flashlight, and by tenth grade I was reading James Clavell and I even gave The Gulag Archipelago a go. Didn't finish it, but I thought it was pretty commendable that I gave it an honest effort at the age of 15. I never shied away from literature classes in college, and even went so far as to take an African Literature class at VCU so I would get to read some stuff that wasn't even near my radar. On the weekends when the children are with their father, and I'm not getting laid, I will sometimes go over to Barnes and Noble and wander for hours, and read little blurbs here and there. When I go to someone's house, I always look at their bookshelves to see what we have in common, and to see if they've got any good recommendations. Right now, I'm reading books on love languages (a relationship book, not a book about THE love languages), the effects of social media and marketing on children (hmmmm), a fictionalized book about Mary, Queen of Scots, and the same damn Clive Cussler book I've been working on for about six months. And a whole bunch of articles on the internet, and a few magazines I've stolen from the various doctor's waiting rooms I've been in (National Geographic, Richmond Family, Garden & Gun, Virginia Living), plus a book on motivational interviewing I'm working on sometimes at work when I eat my lunch, AND Wikipedia.
Not loving to read and not having an appreciation for the written word is not an option for my children. Simply, just not an option. And so, until I've determined that we've moved our reading skills along to the next level, or a point where I am satisfied, there's no more TV. Hell, maybe the TV will just stay off forever. For them. When they're awake. I still need to watch The Real Housewives and Survivor. But for my children, the TV is OFF. Closed up in the entertainment center so they won't be tempted. I am looking forward to the silence, and the sounds of puzzles being constructed on the kitchen table, the sounds of Barbies being played with in bedrooms, and the sounds of pages of books being turned. I should have done this months ago, but it's done now. Let the reading begin.
I should have done this months ago, if not years ago. But I was being lazy, and I blame myself for that. I should have set the priorities a long time ago, and I failed on that. Well, as of tonight, my children can consider their extracurricular activities re-prioritized by me. I've been getting sick of the sound of the TV always being on, other than when we're doing homework and eating, and I'm most certainly sick of the bullshit advertising and the stupid programming. The programming that never says, "Hey, kids, how about you turn the fucking TV off and read a book?" I am sick of at least one child asking every thirty minutes, "Hey, Mommy, can you buy us... Hey, Mommy, can we have.... Mommy, will you get us..." Sick of it, just simply sick and tired of it.
I know that if I don't get this whole reading thing under control now, it's not going to get better next year. In fact, it will get worse, because next year the work will be harder and the reading more complicated, and I'm sorry, but either of my children failing a grade is not an option. Simply, just not an option. Not for me and not for them. If they fail, it's not going to be because TV was the priority. It's going to be for some legitimate reason. Like some kind of learning disability the school system has failed to properly diagnose. But that's a whole other topic.
As my older daughter was laboring through her word list tonight, I was sitting there beside her, halfway tuned out, looking at my bookshelves with all of my favorite books that have been toted around Prospect, Farmville, the southside of Richmond, Glen Allen and two seperate places in Midlothian. Reading isn't my escape, necessarily, but it's certainly my first love. I was reading Stephen King in seventh grade, sitting up late on school nights in my closet with a flashlight, and by tenth grade I was reading James Clavell and I even gave The Gulag Archipelago a go. Didn't finish it, but I thought it was pretty commendable that I gave it an honest effort at the age of 15. I never shied away from literature classes in college, and even went so far as to take an African Literature class at VCU so I would get to read some stuff that wasn't even near my radar. On the weekends when the children are with their father, and I'm not getting laid, I will sometimes go over to Barnes and Noble and wander for hours, and read little blurbs here and there. When I go to someone's house, I always look at their bookshelves to see what we have in common, and to see if they've got any good recommendations. Right now, I'm reading books on love languages (a relationship book, not a book about THE love languages), the effects of social media and marketing on children (hmmmm), a fictionalized book about Mary, Queen of Scots, and the same damn Clive Cussler book I've been working on for about six months. And a whole bunch of articles on the internet, and a few magazines I've stolen from the various doctor's waiting rooms I've been in (National Geographic, Richmond Family, Garden & Gun, Virginia Living), plus a book on motivational interviewing I'm working on sometimes at work when I eat my lunch, AND Wikipedia.
Not loving to read and not having an appreciation for the written word is not an option for my children. Simply, just not an option. And so, until I've determined that we've moved our reading skills along to the next level, or a point where I am satisfied, there's no more TV. Hell, maybe the TV will just stay off forever. For them. When they're awake. I still need to watch The Real Housewives and Survivor. But for my children, the TV is OFF. Closed up in the entertainment center so they won't be tempted. I am looking forward to the silence, and the sounds of puzzles being constructed on the kitchen table, the sounds of Barbies being played with in bedrooms, and the sounds of pages of books being turned. I should have done this months ago, but it's done now. Let the reading begin.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Somethin' Is A Brewin'
Home with my older daughter today, who has strep throat. Again. This is the third time since November, and quite frankly, I'm over it. I've had enough of this shit, and I'm pretty damn sure my boss has had enough of it, too. Not only have I been out with my older daughter who has been sick at least four times (three with strep, once with the flu and once with some other mystery shit), but I've been out with my younger daughter and with me. Can I please just go to work and work a whole month without having to take time off for a doctor's appointment, dentist appointment, therapist's appointment, parent-teacher conference or to pick up from an after school program? Apparently not. This is what I get for being so smugly satisfied with myself the last couple of years for my kids not being sick all the time and for feeling superior in that Appalachian Aryan kind of way always bragging about how my kids just don't get sick that often.
After I got the kids to bed last night, I realized there were two episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County coming on, and even though I'd seen one of them before, I watched it again just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I am addicted to the whole Real Housewives franchise, with the exception of Atlanta because they are just too damn ghetto, and Miami. I don't get the whole Little Havana thing. I'm still waiting for The Real Housewives of West Virginia. Attention Andy Cohen! America wants to see hillbilly gone upscale. If there is a man for this, I know you are. Come on, man! Give us something!
But that's not going to happen and I know it, you know it and Andy himself knows it. I don't even know why I like these shows, other than it's a glimpse into how a tiny sliver of America's bell curve lives, which is nothing at all like my life. I can't fathom Botox and boob jobs, and haven't driven a new car since 2003. When the car was new. I could use a little Botox and a boob lift, but that's not really a good way to spend the money I don't have. I'm also not a size -3 and I don't have blond hair. These women have more drama in their otherwise largely useless lives, and their careers either involve nothing or designing handbags. I suppose I watch these shows to be grateful for the relatively simple life that I have. Even when The Ex calls the insurance company to report that a bill arrived at his house for me and I don't live there any more, like he did with my almost estranged aunt (but then didn't bother to call me to tell me), I just have to roll with it. No agonizing over it with three of my best frenemies and some Cristal. I simply just made up for it when the dentist's office called my house for him this morning and I very politely told the receptionist that he didn't need their services anymore because all of his teeth had fallen out of his head. I've actually decided the next time someone calls me for him and then wants his contact information, I am very kindly going to tell them that he's listed on the Douchebag Network and let them figure it out from there
This whole Real Housewives, thing, though. This is not a slice of real America, and this is not a slice of what a real, honest-to-God American housewife looks like. This is America on Xanax, expensive hair coloring solutions, rejuvenation therapies or whatever that shit is, America with one nanny because they had to cut back from three nannies, America in an McMansion and a Bentley. Sorry, but a vast majority of us don't live like that, and honestly, I don't think I'd want to. There is an argument for living a more simplistic life when you just don't have any fucking money. I realized today that I need to buying my gas at Sheetz and my cigarettes at WaWa, not the other way around, and now that gas has gotten so high, I have an excuse for not buying anything for my children, other than the shit they need. And really, why the fuck aren't we tapping into the national reserves? I don't give a rat's ass about the caribou, because the caribou aren't going to put any gas in my car. I also don't really care about the permafrost. Let's just get the gas prices back down, please.
I mentioned months before that like everyone else, The Great American Novel is living in my head, but I can't do anything with it yet because I haven't lived enough of my life. But I'm toying with a serialized fiction kind of thing, maybe just put it on the blog once a week or something. I never fancied myself a fiction writer, but I suppose I can make up lies and put it on paper. Not to diss anyone who is a fiction writer, but that's kind of what it is. Creatively, of course. But this would be a huge departure from what I've got now, which is just autobiographical bitching and generalized snark. I mean, let's just call it what it is. But anyway, I'm thinking about the format, the content, how I would split it up, how I would title it on the blog, if it would be first person, second person, eighth person, whatever. I'm thinking about my favorite authors and what I don't like about their writing and what I do like. I'm thinking is this just for me to do for me or is this me to do for other people? Personally, I don't think writing to an audience works well, because you end up trying too hard for people who will just criticize.... So, maybe I'll come up with something and maybe I won't. Maybe this is the beginnings of something interesting or maybe this is me just being at home yet again, bored out of my mind with a sick child. Stay tuned.
After I got the kids to bed last night, I realized there were two episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County coming on, and even though I'd seen one of them before, I watched it again just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I am addicted to the whole Real Housewives franchise, with the exception of Atlanta because they are just too damn ghetto, and Miami. I don't get the whole Little Havana thing. I'm still waiting for The Real Housewives of West Virginia. Attention Andy Cohen! America wants to see hillbilly gone upscale. If there is a man for this, I know you are. Come on, man! Give us something!
But that's not going to happen and I know it, you know it and Andy himself knows it. I don't even know why I like these shows, other than it's a glimpse into how a tiny sliver of America's bell curve lives, which is nothing at all like my life. I can't fathom Botox and boob jobs, and haven't driven a new car since 2003. When the car was new. I could use a little Botox and a boob lift, but that's not really a good way to spend the money I don't have. I'm also not a size -3 and I don't have blond hair. These women have more drama in their otherwise largely useless lives, and their careers either involve nothing or designing handbags. I suppose I watch these shows to be grateful for the relatively simple life that I have. Even when The Ex calls the insurance company to report that a bill arrived at his house for me and I don't live there any more, like he did with my almost estranged aunt (but then didn't bother to call me to tell me), I just have to roll with it. No agonizing over it with three of my best frenemies and some Cristal. I simply just made up for it when the dentist's office called my house for him this morning and I very politely told the receptionist that he didn't need their services anymore because all of his teeth had fallen out of his head. I've actually decided the next time someone calls me for him and then wants his contact information, I am very kindly going to tell them that he's listed on the Douchebag Network and let them figure it out from there
This whole Real Housewives, thing, though. This is not a slice of real America, and this is not a slice of what a real, honest-to-God American housewife looks like. This is America on Xanax, expensive hair coloring solutions, rejuvenation therapies or whatever that shit is, America with one nanny because they had to cut back from three nannies, America in an McMansion and a Bentley. Sorry, but a vast majority of us don't live like that, and honestly, I don't think I'd want to. There is an argument for living a more simplistic life when you just don't have any fucking money. I realized today that I need to buying my gas at Sheetz and my cigarettes at WaWa, not the other way around, and now that gas has gotten so high, I have an excuse for not buying anything for my children, other than the shit they need. And really, why the fuck aren't we tapping into the national reserves? I don't give a rat's ass about the caribou, because the caribou aren't going to put any gas in my car. I also don't really care about the permafrost. Let's just get the gas prices back down, please.
I mentioned months before that like everyone else, The Great American Novel is living in my head, but I can't do anything with it yet because I haven't lived enough of my life. But I'm toying with a serialized fiction kind of thing, maybe just put it on the blog once a week or something. I never fancied myself a fiction writer, but I suppose I can make up lies and put it on paper. Not to diss anyone who is a fiction writer, but that's kind of what it is. Creatively, of course. But this would be a huge departure from what I've got now, which is just autobiographical bitching and generalized snark. I mean, let's just call it what it is. But anyway, I'm thinking about the format, the content, how I would split it up, how I would title it on the blog, if it would be first person, second person, eighth person, whatever. I'm thinking about my favorite authors and what I don't like about their writing and what I do like. I'm thinking is this just for me to do for me or is this me to do for other people? Personally, I don't think writing to an audience works well, because you end up trying too hard for people who will just criticize.... So, maybe I'll come up with something and maybe I won't. Maybe this is the beginnings of something interesting or maybe this is me just being at home yet again, bored out of my mind with a sick child. Stay tuned.
Technology Is A Bitch
When I was little, there was no cable TV. There were three channels in the Richmond area on VHF, and then a couple of channels on UHF. If you wanted to change the channel, you got up from the sofa and walked to the TV and turned the dial to whichever of the ten numbers that was on the dial, and then you sat back down and watched the TV show. Most everyone had an antennae attached to the roof of their house so that they could catch the VHF waves floating through the air, and maybe if the weather was just right, you could get a UHF channel on a good day. ABC, CBS and NBC were VHF channels and FOX (before it was FOX) and PBS were the UHF channels, which meant they didn't get much viewing.
Cable came to the Richmond area when I was in third grade, and I remember the girl next door got cable. There was a box about the size of a small shoe box attached to a cord that ran to the box on top of the TV, and there were buttons on the box. This was how you changed the channels, and as long as you didn't trip over the cable running from the box on the TV to the channel changer, you were good. Even then, if I recall, there were only about thirty channels to chose from, and some of those were New York or Chicago stations, so if you got tired of watching the Richmond news, you could quickly switch over to a Chicago channel and watch the news. Then you would just be grateful you didn't live in Chicago.
There were no cell phones. I remember watching Charlie's Angels and such when I was little and they had car phones. There was a box between the front bucket seats, or built into the lower console under the dash, and the phone was corded and ran into the box. Logically, this didn't make sense to me, because there was no cord running out of the car into a phone outlet anywhere, but that's Hollywood for you. The Six Million Dollar Man was never logical, either, but that's a whole other topic. And when I was in high school, Miami Vice burst upon the television, and we all learned that car phones looked like long narrow shoe boxes that didn't need cords. The beginning of the cordless phone, at least in my consciousness.
We all had record players and tape players, and if you were really, really cool, you had a boom box with a double tape deck where you could copy tapes that you borrow from your friends, or *even* make a mix tape for the guy you were "going with". Which makes me wonder if kids even call it that anymore? What's it called now? I remember those little notes that would get passed over in between classes, or would travel from one pubescent hand to the next until it made it to your hand, that would say, "Will you go with me?" And the excitement in the girls bathroom between classes when you would tell anyone who was there to listen and sneak a cigarette, "So-and-so asked me to go with him!!!" Because the only thing left to do was nurture that relationship through hand-holding in the school auditorium, necking in the corner at school dances and make that budding relationship last long enough to get The Class Ring. The Class Ring, to be immediately wrapped with tape so it would fit snugly on your forefinger and sported about. Every girl was sure The Class Ring would immediately be followed by The Engagement Ring, and a few were. None of mine were, and that's fine. I'm where I am because those incredibly intense teenage relationships weren't meant to be, though some have worked out to be incredibly endearing and comforting friendships.
Anyway... technology. I got started on this whole thing because I'm trying to link my damn blog up with my damn page on facebook. I've got the little like button on the side bar of the blog, and I thought that if you clicked the like button it would immediately transfer over to my facebook page, and it would just all be linked together in some mysterious and awesome technological way. Um, it has not worked out like that. For real, when it comes to technology, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I have no idea, and I'm frustrated by that. It should work on the computer like I have it worked out in my head. Because how I have it worked out is really so much easier than the computer is making it. Fucking technology. So if you like my stuff, and really, who doesn't?, then check out my page on facebook and HELP ME GET MORE THAN EIGHT FREAKING FANS.
Cable came to the Richmond area when I was in third grade, and I remember the girl next door got cable. There was a box about the size of a small shoe box attached to a cord that ran to the box on top of the TV, and there were buttons on the box. This was how you changed the channels, and as long as you didn't trip over the cable running from the box on the TV to the channel changer, you were good. Even then, if I recall, there were only about thirty channels to chose from, and some of those were New York or Chicago stations, so if you got tired of watching the Richmond news, you could quickly switch over to a Chicago channel and watch the news. Then you would just be grateful you didn't live in Chicago.
There were no cell phones. I remember watching Charlie's Angels and such when I was little and they had car phones. There was a box between the front bucket seats, or built into the lower console under the dash, and the phone was corded and ran into the box. Logically, this didn't make sense to me, because there was no cord running out of the car into a phone outlet anywhere, but that's Hollywood for you. The Six Million Dollar Man was never logical, either, but that's a whole other topic. And when I was in high school, Miami Vice burst upon the television, and we all learned that car phones looked like long narrow shoe boxes that didn't need cords. The beginning of the cordless phone, at least in my consciousness.
We all had record players and tape players, and if you were really, really cool, you had a boom box with a double tape deck where you could copy tapes that you borrow from your friends, or *even* make a mix tape for the guy you were "going with". Which makes me wonder if kids even call it that anymore? What's it called now? I remember those little notes that would get passed over in between classes, or would travel from one pubescent hand to the next until it made it to your hand, that would say, "Will you go with me?" And the excitement in the girls bathroom between classes when you would tell anyone who was there to listen and sneak a cigarette, "So-and-so asked me to go with him!!!" Because the only thing left to do was nurture that relationship through hand-holding in the school auditorium, necking in the corner at school dances and make that budding relationship last long enough to get The Class Ring. The Class Ring, to be immediately wrapped with tape so it would fit snugly on your forefinger and sported about. Every girl was sure The Class Ring would immediately be followed by The Engagement Ring, and a few were. None of mine were, and that's fine. I'm where I am because those incredibly intense teenage relationships weren't meant to be, though some have worked out to be incredibly endearing and comforting friendships.
Anyway... technology. I got started on this whole thing because I'm trying to link my damn blog up with my damn page on facebook. I've got the little like button on the side bar of the blog, and I thought that if you clicked the like button it would immediately transfer over to my facebook page, and it would just all be linked together in some mysterious and awesome technological way. Um, it has not worked out like that. For real, when it comes to technology, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I have no idea, and I'm frustrated by that. It should work on the computer like I have it worked out in my head. Because how I have it worked out is really so much easier than the computer is making it. Fucking technology. So if you like my stuff, and really, who doesn't?, then check out my page on facebook and HELP ME GET MORE THAN EIGHT FREAKING FANS.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
More Sick
Holy god, can I go for just one month without someone getting sick? Literally. Just one freaking month. I sent the children over to my mother's house last night so I could get up and go to work this morning for several hours. I got delayed by Guy #1 this morning and finally rolled downtown around noon-ish. And guess the fuck what? I didn't have my keys to get in the goddamn building. Can you say annoyed? Guy #1 said this was my sign that I wasn't supposed to be at work today anyway, and that I was supposed to be with him.
Made it happen. And then my mother called. The older daughter is complaining about pain in her leg, running a fever and has been sleeping for the last three hours. Huh? She just had the flu three freaking weeks ago. How is this happening again? The pain in the leg made me suspicious, and what with me having just a little tiny bit of hypochondria running through my veins, I have already determined that she needs a full body MRI to rule out... cancer. Because everything is cancer or the beginnings of it when your father dies from Stage IV cancer three and a half weeks after receiving the initial diagnosis. The only trick here is figuring out how to manipulate the pediatrician into ordering this without them first trying to have me committed for Munchhausen's. I really think the medical system should work for me, and that would mean that the doctors just write out the orders for the tests I want done. There's a way to make this happen, but it takes a lot of time and research. I know this because my younger daughter started laser surgeries with a pediatric plastic surgeon specializing in cranio-facial abnormalities when she was two and a half months old. ME making the medical system work for ME. And yeah, the younger daughter did actually need the surgeries.
So I guess I'll be out of work AGAIN tomorrow, which really pisses me off especially since I was at work today and couldn't get into the freaking building. I'm going to have to get a doctor's note for this one because there is no way my boss is going to believe me when I call in in the morning and tell her that I need to be out yet again. I suppose that I need to get the children to actually start taking those vitamins, though I'm a larger proponent of just letting their little immune systems try to fight most of this stuff off, because it's my largely ignorant opinion that that's how we will ultimately live stronger. And hopefully living stronger will lead to longer and better. Who knows? I just want to go a month without having to worry about a sick child and worry about having to call in again. Or at least save the sickness for when they are with their father so he can figure this shit out. Truly, though, I don't want them to get sick when they are with him because he's such a child he always calls me to tell him what to do. I just hope that whatever she's got I don't get again. I can't be that sick again for at least another decade.
Made it happen. And then my mother called. The older daughter is complaining about pain in her leg, running a fever and has been sleeping for the last three hours. Huh? She just had the flu three freaking weeks ago. How is this happening again? The pain in the leg made me suspicious, and what with me having just a little tiny bit of hypochondria running through my veins, I have already determined that she needs a full body MRI to rule out... cancer. Because everything is cancer or the beginnings of it when your father dies from Stage IV cancer three and a half weeks after receiving the initial diagnosis. The only trick here is figuring out how to manipulate the pediatrician into ordering this without them first trying to have me committed for Munchhausen's. I really think the medical system should work for me, and that would mean that the doctors just write out the orders for the tests I want done. There's a way to make this happen, but it takes a lot of time and research. I know this because my younger daughter started laser surgeries with a pediatric plastic surgeon specializing in cranio-facial abnormalities when she was two and a half months old. ME making the medical system work for ME. And yeah, the younger daughter did actually need the surgeries.
So I guess I'll be out of work AGAIN tomorrow, which really pisses me off especially since I was at work today and couldn't get into the freaking building. I'm going to have to get a doctor's note for this one because there is no way my boss is going to believe me when I call in in the morning and tell her that I need to be out yet again. I suppose that I need to get the children to actually start taking those vitamins, though I'm a larger proponent of just letting their little immune systems try to fight most of this stuff off, because it's my largely ignorant opinion that that's how we will ultimately live stronger. And hopefully living stronger will lead to longer and better. Who knows? I just want to go a month without having to worry about a sick child and worry about having to call in again. Or at least save the sickness for when they are with their father so he can figure this shit out. Truly, though, I don't want them to get sick when they are with him because he's such a child he always calls me to tell him what to do. I just hope that whatever she's got I don't get again. I can't be that sick again for at least another decade.
Friday, April 1, 2011
More Updates
The overgrown mutant gerbil I've been dog sitting has gone home. Can I get a hallelujah? It's been a trying week of dog sitting, what with the dog coming over here for the week right after I had the flu and was still trying to put myself back together. No more accidents in the house, and she didn't even use the little potty pads in her pen when she was cooped up during the day, thus proving to the dog's owner that the dog is house broken, but apparently only at my house. What I think I have discovered about that, though, is that yay! The dog didn't shit in the house. Boo! Now I have dog shit in my yard. The disgusting thought that came out of this realization is that if the dog shits in the house, which I obviously did not encourage, is that the shit would get cleaned up and go right into the toilet, thus saving my yard from having dog shit in it. I figured I'm screwed either way, because somewhere on my property there would be dog shit. I swear cats are so much easier. The other benefit to the dog being gone is that when I'm trying to get my swerve on with Guy #1, the dog won't be trying to jump up onto the bed to see what's going on. Animals are horrible about that stuff. Anyone who has ever been goosed on the ass by a cold dog nose whilst doing s.t.u.f.f. can feel me on this.
My older daughter got another year long pass from the orthodontist the other day. I'm relieved, because I sure as hell don't have the money to pay for orthodontics right now. The x-rays were clearer than last years, and we can see that she has all of her top permanent teeth in place, though still in her jaw, as they haven't erupted yet. The bad news is that she is most definitely missing four bottom adult molars, two on each side. This means that she will need to keep her baby molars for her entire life. I don't know of anyone who has kept any of their baby teeth their whole life. The orthodontist says that since there are no teeth under them pushing them out of the way, it shouldn't be a problem. But what if those teeth loosen up somehow and she loses them? Not a prob, says the orthodontist. We can do implants! Holy $$$$$$! I'm thinking when this whole orthodontic thing is over with, however many years down the road that might be, I might see if they can just put caps on those baby molars in some kind of an attempt to save her from implants. That and she'll really have to steer clear of bulimia. The diet that will FUCK YOUR TEETH UP. I've heard that anorexics hold themselves to be above bulimics because they have more self control about dysfunctional eating and diets, and thus have better teeth. That they don't use. Because they don't eat. Whew. Enough of that sidebar. Other than I could probably use a week or two of anorexia myself.
We've got somewhat of a busy weekend coming up. The younger daughter is starting gymnastics class tomorrow. The Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place we were going to couldn't honor their own schedule and I demanded that The Ex get his money back so we could go to the New Upstart Gymnastics Place that is slowing taking away talent and business from the Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place.
When The Ex and I had our older daughter, like all first children, she was magical. Truly the most magnificent baby that ever walked the face of the earth. She was just the best baby ever, other than those long crying jags because I didn't know what in the fuck I was doing with her, but other than that, just the best baby ever. And yeah, I know everyone thinks that, but it was true for me. The best baby ever. When I got pregnant with the younger daughter, I have conflicting visions of the younger daughter being just like the older daughter, but just a smaller version with a different name, and then I worried that my younger daughter would never measure up to this most perfect child I already had. Good grief, was I wrong. I continue to be amazed at my younger daughter, even though I don't mention her as much as the older daughter. She has the magical ability to watch something once or twice and then make it happen. She is one of those strange children who seems to excel at most of what she does with minimal effort. She can out argue me, and her logical skills are that of an adult. I'm no slacker in the logic department, but there have been times when we've had a discussion about something and I'm left, mouth agape, trying to figure out how a five year old just out-thought me. This is going to be the child that gives me HELL when she reaches the teenage years.
So gymnastics for the younger daughter tomorrow. She's never taken gymnastics, but considering that she taught herself how to do cartwheels when she was three gives me comfort that she'll adapt just fine. The older daughter has her Tumbling for Cheer class tomorrow immediately after the younger daughter's class. This is my child who isn't so coordinated, and I am beginning to wonder if I shouldn't just scrap the whole sports thing and just put her in art, because while she doesn't seem to be athletically inclined, she is most certainly artistically inclined. Part of our weekend activities include going over to one of the county high schools to see one of her pieces of artwork that was selected for an art show. Of course, of course, of course that meant that I emailed everyone in the family to come out and see it. I thought I was doing an absolute awesome job of making a big stink out of it, and come to find out, my older daughter is not so impressed with me doing that. She's almost kind of embarrassed, and I'm not sure if it's because she's got some semblance of humility or because she's just getting to that age of girlhood where I am not cool anymore. Whatever. I told her to just suck it up and be the center of attention. I'm pretty sure it won't kill her.
Mrs. Second Grade Teacher did not make me happy yesterday when we spoke on the phone. I am sick of this woman blaming everything that my daughter does wrong on my daughter, and when she told me that my older daughter can't write in complete sentences, I said (and this is no joke) in a rather nasty tone of voice, "Well, then, I guess the real question is if she can't write in complete sentences, what have you been doing all year? Here it is the end of March, and if you're telling me she can't write in complete sentences, then what have you been doing?" So, yeah, that conversation did not go well for either of us. After a highly unproductive phone call, I then placed a call to the Assistant Principal to schedule a meeting with her. It's not like anyone is going to do anything, but at least I can levy my complaints to someone. Haven't heard back yet from the message I left. I came to the conclusion today that my real issue with Mrs. Second Grade Teacher is that with every issue surrounding my daughter, and with every problem I've had with this teacher, what I can't stomach is the fact that I hardly ever hear this woman say anything positive about my child. I hear a whole lot of "She can't... She won't... She doesn't... She is not...." Okay, I am sick and fucking tired of this uninspirational woman. I am sick of her blaming my daughter for what my daughter can't do or doesn't do or won't do and for what I am clearly marking as Mrs. Second Grade Teacher's failures. Quite frankly, I don't know anyone who is going to give their absolute best effort to an asshole. My marriage would be an excellent example of this. And, no, I wasn't the asshole in the marriage. I've come to the conclusion that the problem is not my daughter, and it's not that I've had to push her through second grade, because she knows the material. And she can write in complete sentences, you fat, old bitch. The problem is Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, and I feel sorry for all of the other students she will most likely blame. Nine more weeks and the hell of second grade will be over. I guess I can chalk this year up as a learning experience of how to deal with a really shitty uninspirational teacher. Who won't get a present at the end of the year.
Saturday night the children and I will go to my mother's for them to spend the night. I had planned on watching the VCU game at my mother's with the children, because we've talked about all week and I, for one, am excited. But then my older daughter said she'd rather watch the Kid's Choice Awards, which come on an hour after the VCU game. So... I might just be coming home. Sunday morning - Guy #1. Nuff said. Late Sunday morning into Sunday afternoon, work. At work. I'm still trying to catch up after one wasted week at a conference and the next week out sick with the flu. I haven't gotten permission to actually go to work on Sunday, but fuck it. It'll only make my boss look good that she has such dedicated employees who work on Sundays. I won the office popularity contest, I mean employee of the quarter, in January and now I've got this overwhelming obsession to work my ass off to prove that it wasn't a popularity contest after all.
And after that, Monday. Back to the routine. I'm tired and getting burnt out on school shit. Even though I feel just the teensy bit panicky at the thought of my kids going back to The Ex in early June, I'm also ready for a break. I love my kids with all I've got, but I'm ready to just listen to silence for a few months.
My older daughter got another year long pass from the orthodontist the other day. I'm relieved, because I sure as hell don't have the money to pay for orthodontics right now. The x-rays were clearer than last years, and we can see that she has all of her top permanent teeth in place, though still in her jaw, as they haven't erupted yet. The bad news is that she is most definitely missing four bottom adult molars, two on each side. This means that she will need to keep her baby molars for her entire life. I don't know of anyone who has kept any of their baby teeth their whole life. The orthodontist says that since there are no teeth under them pushing them out of the way, it shouldn't be a problem. But what if those teeth loosen up somehow and she loses them? Not a prob, says the orthodontist. We can do implants! Holy $$$$$$! I'm thinking when this whole orthodontic thing is over with, however many years down the road that might be, I might see if they can just put caps on those baby molars in some kind of an attempt to save her from implants. That and she'll really have to steer clear of bulimia. The diet that will FUCK YOUR TEETH UP. I've heard that anorexics hold themselves to be above bulimics because they have more self control about dysfunctional eating and diets, and thus have better teeth. That they don't use. Because they don't eat. Whew. Enough of that sidebar. Other than I could probably use a week or two of anorexia myself.
We've got somewhat of a busy weekend coming up. The younger daughter is starting gymnastics class tomorrow. The Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place we were going to couldn't honor their own schedule and I demanded that The Ex get his money back so we could go to the New Upstart Gymnastics Place that is slowing taking away talent and business from the Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place.
When The Ex and I had our older daughter, like all first children, she was magical. Truly the most magnificent baby that ever walked the face of the earth. She was just the best baby ever, other than those long crying jags because I didn't know what in the fuck I was doing with her, but other than that, just the best baby ever. And yeah, I know everyone thinks that, but it was true for me. The best baby ever. When I got pregnant with the younger daughter, I have conflicting visions of the younger daughter being just like the older daughter, but just a smaller version with a different name, and then I worried that my younger daughter would never measure up to this most perfect child I already had. Good grief, was I wrong. I continue to be amazed at my younger daughter, even though I don't mention her as much as the older daughter. She has the magical ability to watch something once or twice and then make it happen. She is one of those strange children who seems to excel at most of what she does with minimal effort. She can out argue me, and her logical skills are that of an adult. I'm no slacker in the logic department, but there have been times when we've had a discussion about something and I'm left, mouth agape, trying to figure out how a five year old just out-thought me. This is going to be the child that gives me HELL when she reaches the teenage years.
So gymnastics for the younger daughter tomorrow. She's never taken gymnastics, but considering that she taught herself how to do cartwheels when she was three gives me comfort that she'll adapt just fine. The older daughter has her Tumbling for Cheer class tomorrow immediately after the younger daughter's class. This is my child who isn't so coordinated, and I am beginning to wonder if I shouldn't just scrap the whole sports thing and just put her in art, because while she doesn't seem to be athletically inclined, she is most certainly artistically inclined. Part of our weekend activities include going over to one of the county high schools to see one of her pieces of artwork that was selected for an art show. Of course, of course, of course that meant that I emailed everyone in the family to come out and see it. I thought I was doing an absolute awesome job of making a big stink out of it, and come to find out, my older daughter is not so impressed with me doing that. She's almost kind of embarrassed, and I'm not sure if it's because she's got some semblance of humility or because she's just getting to that age of girlhood where I am not cool anymore. Whatever. I told her to just suck it up and be the center of attention. I'm pretty sure it won't kill her.
Mrs. Second Grade Teacher did not make me happy yesterday when we spoke on the phone. I am sick of this woman blaming everything that my daughter does wrong on my daughter, and when she told me that my older daughter can't write in complete sentences, I said (and this is no joke) in a rather nasty tone of voice, "Well, then, I guess the real question is if she can't write in complete sentences, what have you been doing all year? Here it is the end of March, and if you're telling me she can't write in complete sentences, then what have you been doing?" So, yeah, that conversation did not go well for either of us. After a highly unproductive phone call, I then placed a call to the Assistant Principal to schedule a meeting with her. It's not like anyone is going to do anything, but at least I can levy my complaints to someone. Haven't heard back yet from the message I left. I came to the conclusion today that my real issue with Mrs. Second Grade Teacher is that with every issue surrounding my daughter, and with every problem I've had with this teacher, what I can't stomach is the fact that I hardly ever hear this woman say anything positive about my child. I hear a whole lot of "She can't... She won't... She doesn't... She is not...." Okay, I am sick and fucking tired of this uninspirational woman. I am sick of her blaming my daughter for what my daughter can't do or doesn't do or won't do and for what I am clearly marking as Mrs. Second Grade Teacher's failures. Quite frankly, I don't know anyone who is going to give their absolute best effort to an asshole. My marriage would be an excellent example of this. And, no, I wasn't the asshole in the marriage. I've come to the conclusion that the problem is not my daughter, and it's not that I've had to push her through second grade, because she knows the material. And she can write in complete sentences, you fat, old bitch. The problem is Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, and I feel sorry for all of the other students she will most likely blame. Nine more weeks and the hell of second grade will be over. I guess I can chalk this year up as a learning experience of how to deal with a really shitty uninspirational teacher. Who won't get a present at the end of the year.
Saturday night the children and I will go to my mother's for them to spend the night. I had planned on watching the VCU game at my mother's with the children, because we've talked about all week and I, for one, am excited. But then my older daughter said she'd rather watch the Kid's Choice Awards, which come on an hour after the VCU game. So... I might just be coming home. Sunday morning - Guy #1. Nuff said. Late Sunday morning into Sunday afternoon, work. At work. I'm still trying to catch up after one wasted week at a conference and the next week out sick with the flu. I haven't gotten permission to actually go to work on Sunday, but fuck it. It'll only make my boss look good that she has such dedicated employees who work on Sundays. I won the office popularity contest, I mean employee of the quarter, in January and now I've got this overwhelming obsession to work my ass off to prove that it wasn't a popularity contest after all.
And after that, Monday. Back to the routine. I'm tired and getting burnt out on school shit. Even though I feel just the teensy bit panicky at the thought of my kids going back to The Ex in early June, I'm also ready for a break. I love my kids with all I've got, but I'm ready to just listen to silence for a few months.
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